The Song I Sing
The pages written in my book
Are pages made of second looks
They tell the days of happy sad
And sometimes sprinkle crazy mad
The game is played and often lost
By those who fail to count the cost
The dreams I have are often false
And failed the chances come across
The search for love bewilders me
And often leads to poverty
Incredible insanity, indubious integrity
It always makes a fool of me is what I see
It’s incomplete she makes of me
She always makes a dunce of me
Indiscreet to her degree
Insatiable this thing I see
We learn the truth at seventeen
That love is often just a dream
A hindrance and waste of time
The author of an awful crime
Laying claim to those we name
Becomes a hopeless silly game
Knights would strive and pawns would fall
The Queen's last move would end it all
To sing a song a serenade
Write the poetry feelings play
Hold the pillow while I lay
Pretending solace while I crave
The end begins to end it all
The days we spend in love must fall
And nights to come with melodies
Of love and what it makes of me
(To be sung to the song, "Seventeen's" music)
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